The Witching Hour (9 page)

But the great accidental discovery was not that Michael’s father knew how to play chess, or that he had the kindness in him to buy such a beautiful set. That was all very well and good. And of course playing chess drew father and son together. But the great accidental discovery was that Michael could absorb something more than stories from books … that they could lead him to something other than painful dreaming and wanting.

He had learned something from a book which others believed must be learned from doing or practice.

He became more courageous in the library after that. He talked to the librarians at the desk. He learned about the “subjects catalog.” And haphazardly and obsessively, he began to research a whole spectrum of subjects.

The first was cars. He found lots of books in the library on cars. He learned all about an engine from the books, and all about makes of cars, and quietly dazzled his father and his grandfather with this knowledge.

Then he looked up fire fighters and fires in the catalog. He
read up on the history of the companies that developed in the big cities. He read about the fire engines and ladder trucks and how they were made, and all about great fires in history, such as the Chicago fire, and the Triangle Factory fire, and once again he was able to discuss all this with his father and grandfather.

Michael was thrilled. He felt now that he had great power. And he proceeded to his secret agenda, not confiding this to anyone. Music was his first secret subject.

He chose the most babyfied books at first—this subject was hard—and then he moved on to the illustrated histories for young adults which told him all about the boy genius Mozart, and poor deaf Beethoven, and crazy Paganini who had supposedly sold his soul to the devil. He learned the definitions of symphony and concerto and sonata. He learned about the musical staff, quarter notes, half notes, major and minor key. He learned the names of all the symphonic instruments.

Then Michael went on to houses. And in no time, he came to understand the Greek Revival style and the Italianate style and the late Victorian style, and what distinguished these various types of buildings. He learned to identify Corinthian columns and Doric columns, to pick out side hall houses and raised cottages. With his new knowledge, he roamed the Garden District, his love for the things he saw deeply and quietly intensified.

Ah, he had hit the jackpot with all this. There was no reason to live in confusion anymore. He could “read up” on anything. On Saturday afternoons, he went through dozens of books on art, architecture, Greek mythology, science. He even read books on modern painting, and opera and ballet, which made him ashamed and afraid that his father might sneak up behind him and make fun of him.

The third thing that happened that year was a concert at the Municipal Auditorium. Michael’s father, like many firemen, took extra jobs in his time off; and that year he was working the concession stand at the auditorium, selling bottled soda, and Michael went with him one night to help out. It was a school night and he shouldn’t have gone at all, but he wanted to go. He wanted to see the Municipal Auditorium and what went on there, so his mother said OK.

During the first half of the program, before the intermission during which Michael would have to help his father, and after which they would pack up and go home, Michael went inside and up to the very top of the auditorium where the seats were empty, and he sat there waiting to see what the concert would be like. It reminded him of the students in
The Red Shoes
, actually, the students in the balcony, waiting up there with such
expectation. And sure enough the place began to fill with beautifully dressed people—the uptowners of New Orleans—and the orchestra gathered to tune up in the pit. Even the strange thin man from First Street was there. Michael caught a glimpse of him far below, his face turned upward, as though he could actually see Michael all the way in the top row.

What followed swept Michael away. Isaac Stern, the great violinist, played that night, and it was the Beethoven Concerto for Violin and Orchestra, one of the most violently beautiful and simply eloquent pieces of music Michael had ever heard. Never once did it leave him in confusion. Never once did it leave him out.

Long after the concert was over, he was able to whistle the principal melody, and to remember as he did so the great sweet sensuous sound of the full orchestra and the thin heartbreaking notes that came from Isaac Stern’s violin.

But Michael’s life was poisoned by the longing created in him by this experience. In fact, he suffered, in the days that followed, possibly the worst dissatisfaction with his world that he had ever experienced. But he did not let anyone know this. He kept it sealed inside of him, just as he kept secret his knowledge of the subjects he studied at the library. He feared the snobbishness growing in himself, the loathing he knew that he could feel for those he loved if he let such a feeling have life.

And Michael couldn’t bear not to love his family. He couldn’t bear to be ashamed of them. He couldn’t bear the pettiness and the ingratitude of such a thing.

He could hate the people down the block. That was fine. But he had to love, and be loyal to, and be in harmony with, those under his own roof.

Reasonably, naturally, he was devoted to his hardworking grandmother who always had cabbage and ham boiling on the stove when he came in. She spent her life it seemed either cooking or ironing or hanging out clothes on backyard lines from a wicker basket.

And he loved his grandfather, a little man with tiny black eyes who was always on the front steps waiting for Michael after school. He had wonderful stories to tell of the old days and Michael never tired of them.

And then there was his father, the fire fighter, the hero. How could Michael not appreciate such a man? Often Michael went over to the firehouse on Washington Avenue to see him. He sat around, just one of the guys, dying to go out with them when an alarm came in, but always forbidden to do it. He loved to see the truck tearing out, to hear the sirens and the bells. Never
mind that he lived in dread that he might someday have to be a fireman. A fireman and nothing else. Living in a double shotgun cottage.

How his mother managed to love these people was another story, and one Michael could not entirely understand. He tried day in and day out to mitigate her quiet unhappiness. He was her closest and only friend. But nothing could save his mother, and he knew it. She was a lost soul down there in the Irish Channel, a woman speaking better and dressing better than those around her, begging to go back to work as a sales clerk in a department store, and always being told no; a woman who lived for her paperback novels late at night—books by John Dickson Carr and Daphne Du Maurier and Frances Parkinson Keyes—sitting on the living room couch, dressed only in a slip on account of the heat, when everyone else was asleep, drinking wine slowly and carefully from a bottle wrapped in brown paper.

“Miss San Francisco” Michael’s father called her. “My mother does everything for you, you know that?” he’d say to her. He stared at her with utter contempt on the very few occasions when she drank too much wine and her voice became slurry. But he never moved to stop her. After all, she rarely got that bad. It was just the idea—a woman sitting there drinking like a man, from a bottle all evening long. Michael knew that was what his father thought, no one had to tell him.

And maybe Michael’s father was afraid she’d leave if he tried to boss her or control her. He was proud of her prettiness, her slender body, and even the nice way that she talked. He even got the wine for her now and then, bottles of port and sherry which he himself detested. “Sticky sweet stuff for women,” he said to Michael. But it was also the stuff that winos drank and Michael knew it.

Did his mother hate his father? Michael never really knew for sure. At some point in his childhood, he came to know that his mother was some eight years older than his father. But the difference was not apparent, and his father was a good-looking man and his mother seemed to think so. She was kind to her husband most of the time, but then she was kind to everyone. Yet nothing in the world was going to make her get pregnant again, she often said, and there were quarrels, awful muffled quarrels behind the only closed door in the little shotgun flat, the door to the back bedroom.

There was a story about his mother and father, but Michael never knew if it was true. His aunt told him the story after his mother’s death. It was that his parents had fallen in love in San Francisco, near the end of the war, while his father was in the
navy, and that his father had looked very handsome in his uniform and had the charm in those days to really get the girls.

“He looked like you, Mike,” his aunt said years later. “Black hair and blue eyes and those big arms, just like you. And you remember your father’s voice, it was a beautiful voice, kind of deep and smooth. Even with that Irish Channel accent.”

And so Michael’s mother had “fallen hard” for him, and then when he went overseas again he had written Michael’s mother lovely poetic letters, wooing her and breaking her heart. But the letters had not been written by Michael’s father. They had been written by his best friend in the service, an educated man on the same ship, who had laid on the metaphors and the quotes from books. And Michael’s mother never guessed.

Michael’s mother had actually fallen in love with those letters. And when she’d found herself pregnant with Michael, she went south trusting in those letters, and was received at once by the common good-hearted family who prepared for the wedding in St. Alphonsus Church immediately and had it all done right as soon as Michael’s father could get leave.

What a shock it must have been to her, the little treeless street, the tiny house with each room opening onto the other, and the mother-in-law who waited hand and foot on the men and never took a chair herself during supper.

Michael’s aunt said that Michael’s father had one time confessed the story of the letters to his mother when Michael was still a baby, and that Michael’s mother had gone wild and tried to kill him and she had burned all the letters in the backyard. But then she’d quieted down and tried to make a go of it. Here she was with a little child. She was past thirty. Her mother and father were dead; she had only her sister and brother out in San Francisco, and she had no choice but to stay with the father of her child, and besides the Currys were not bad people.

Her mother-in-law in particular she had loved for taking her in when she was pregnant. And that part—about the love between the two women—Michael knew had been true, because Michael’s mother took care of the old woman during her final illness.

Both his grandparents died the year Michael started high school, his grandmother in the spring and his grandfather two months after. And though many aunts and uncles had died over the years, these were the first funerals that Michael ever attended, and they were to be engraved forever in his memory.

They were absolutely dazzling affairs with all the accoutrements of refinement which Michael loved. In fact, it troubled him deeply that the furnishings of Lonigan and Sons, the funeral
parlor, and the limousines with their gray velvet upholstery and even the flowers and the finely dressed pall bearers seemed connected to the atmosphere of the elegant movies Michael so valued. Here were soft-spoken men and women, fine carpets and carved furniture, rich colors and textures, and the perfume of lilies and roses, and people tempering their natural meanness and crude ways.

It was as if when you died you went into the world of
Rebecca
or
The Red Shoes
or
A Song to Remember.
You had beautiful things for a final day or two before they put you in the ground.

It was a connection that intrigued him for hours. When he saw
The Bride of Frankenstein
for a second time at the Happy Hour on Magazine Street, he watched only the great houses in the picture, and he listened to the music of the voices and studied the clothes more than anything else. He wished he could talk about all this to somebody, but when he tried to tell his girlfriend, Marie Louise, she didn’t know what he was talking about. She thought it was dumb to go to the library. She wouldn’t go to foreign movies.

He saw that same look in her eyes that he had seen so often in his father’s eyes. It wasn’t fear of the unknown thing. It was disgust. And he didn’t want to be disgusting.

Besides, he was in high school now. Everything was changing. Sometimes he was really afraid that maybe now was the time that his dreams were supposed to die and the real world was supposed to get him. Seems other people felt that way. Marie Louise’s father, sitting on his front steps, looked at him coldly one night and demanded: “What makes
you
think
you’re
going to college? Your daddy got the money for Loyola?” He spat on the pavement, looked Michael up and down. There it was again, the disgust.

Michael had shrugged. There was no state school in those days in New Orleans. “Maybe I’ll go to LSU at Baton Rouge,” he said. “Maybe I’ll get a scholarship.”

“Bull Durham!” the guy muttered under his breath. “Why don’t you think about being half as good a fireman as your father?”

And maybe they were all in the right, and it was time to think of other things. Michael had grown to almost six feet, a prodigious height for an Irish Channel kid, and a record for his branch of the Curry family. His father bought an old Packard and taught him how to drive in a week’s time, and then he got a part-time job delivering flowers for a florist on St. Charles Avenue.

But it was not until his sophomore year that his old ideas began to give way, that he himself began to forget his ambitions.
He went out for football, made first string, and suddenly he was out there on the field in the stadium at City Park and the kids were screaming. “Brought down by Michael Curry,” they said over the loudspeakers. Marie Louise told him in a swooning voice on the phone that as far as she was concerned he had taken over her will, that with him she would do “anything.”